Depression Cannot Hit A Moving Target

diary entry

Tuesday, 30th September 2025

08:22 a.m.
The weather has turned and somehow today is the last day of September. Time keeps moving and I’m still here, stuck.

I thought I’d feel a lot worse about autumn arriving but I don’t. I was terrified for the leaves to change but I’ve welcomed it like an old family member you dread seeing and then end up holding tightly once they arrive.

Something about the cold air and being wrapped up in a sweater welcomes whatever feeling has been sat like a rock in my stomach since May.

Summer was endless. The hot, sticky sun made me guilty. Like a perfect, shiny friend who never has a bad day, glaring at me and telling me to just smile and get over it. Fuck off, would you.

Something about tanned skin and glossy lips. Something about looking one way and feeling the opposite. Everything was so disjointed. A ghost in a tanned, waxed, bony body.

The only time I felt like everything might be okay was when I was in Antigua. None of those smiles were fake. But the Caribbean Sea and a crush on an unavailable man other than your ex will do that to you.

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Friday, 10 October 2025

8:43 p.m.
I’m on my way out. Thirty minutes late to a birthday dinner and still counting. Heading to a launch party thing after. I feel like my old self. And by that I mean me, before I started playing dress up as a trad-wife. I’ve even got my old uniform on: black leather knee-high boots and leather jacket combo.

Nice.

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NOW

After going back and forth about it for days, I posted the Substack about showing up to Mr Man’s house uninvited (get up to speed HERE). Right around the same time I blocked him, removed his friends and family from my Instagram (respectfully) and decided to keep it fucking moving. I don’t want him back anymore.

That motherfucker never yearned for me.

Very quickly after The Great Blocking, everything in my life started coming back into focus. HD.

There is no going back. There will be no reparations. And now I feel free. My daydreams shifted from reveries of us to visions of future me. And guess what else?

I don’t have any desire to date.

I beg your fucking pardon, ma’am?

Yep. I mean it. Sex drive is on the floor and I find the idea of a man even touching me utterly repulsive. I genuinely just want to focus on me and my friends and my life. Alone.

Jesus Christ, it’s a Christmas miracle.

I met up with Amber last Wednesday and we were discussing our plans to batten down the hatches for the oncoming seasonal depression. I told her how I’m keeping myself busy, working on multiple projects, going out to events and parties more than I have in ages.

“Depression cannot hit a moving target,” she said.

Oh. Now that is stunning.

And it is so true. I’d spent the summer completely paralysed. Static. Waiting. Hoping. I forgot how to exist. I forgot my own fucking name. And I forgot one of my most sacred mantras: Keep it fucking moving.

At first I was just trying to run from the ache that was chasing me, but I’m not moving to outrun the pain anymore. I’m moving towards whatever is next. I’m moving because standing still started to look too much like worship at the altar of a man who attempted casual conversation while he held my bloodied heart in his weak fist, still beating.

WELP.

If I keep myself well fed, well dressed, well rested and just busy enough, I might just make it through Cuffing Season alive. (I’ve issued a full Seasonal Depression Survival Guide to accompany this post. Read it here.)

I stayed out until 6am on Friday night. (Yes, even sober I can still rally until the early hours. Don’t underestimate me). And I was up by 10am on Saturday: Electrolytes, vitamins, supplements, two coffees consumed and then I was out the door to meet Michaela in Notting Hill for matcha. I felt fucking fantastic. The new, old me.

First of all, I’ve realised that half the time I’m not actually depressed. I’m just standing still (lying down), underfed, and borderline malnourished. After months of blood tests and lengthy consultations with three different doctors, I’ve finally figured out the perfect concoction of supplements and medications to keep the Mean Reds at bay.

I’m nearing the end of my luteal phase right now and I’m not even flinching. In fact, PMS should be scared of me. I feel fucking invincible right now.

That. Or you’re smack bang in the middle of a manic episode, darling.

Either way, I feel goooood. I should’ve followed proper breakup protocol and removed Mr Man months ago but I was holding out hope. I wanted to remain palatable. I was playing it small. I didn’t want to burn bridges.

I had to be sure it was truly over. And now I am.

Light it the fuck up, baby.

So, now what?

Well… I’m hoping I can keep the focus off that man (or any man) and on myself for long enough that this feeling sticks. So far so good but it’s only been a couple of weeks of me feeling like this new and improved version of my old, single self. But surely the wallowing is well and truly over now? Surely. My life must go on.

My girlfriends continue to breathe life into every corner of my soul and when I’m not with them, I really am falling back in love with doing things completely alone. Miss Independent.

I went to the gym on my own today. Once upon a time, I did that every day. It sounds so stupid but I’ve not been able to get myself to the gym without Lauren or Carts there to hold my hand in so long I can’t even remember the last time I went for a workout alone. (I only went to use the sauna today, but baby steps. It’s also a Sunday and my headphones are busted since I dropped my phone down the loo the other day. Let me live).

I’m thinking that for Christmas, I’ll take myself away somewhere sunny on a solo trip like I used to.

Also… I’m suddenly incredibly inspired to write music again.

Oh, we are so back, baby.

I’m not waiting for permission to do anything. I’m just doing the things. Getting dressed up every day, even if it’s just for me. I’m remembering who I used to be and the things that gave me lust for life. Things that are here and real. Things that are mine, all mine.

So you wanna know how to survive seasonal depression?

Keep it fucking moving.

If depression wants me, it’ll have to catch me first.

(And if you want the step-by-step, you can read A Single Girl’s Guide to Surviving Seasonal Depression HERE.)

I’ll meet you bitches in the trenches.

See you next time in the confessional.

Blithe x